Mistletoe Kisses
by BoundInSkin
Summary: Poor Canada keeps receiving unwanted attention from all the wrong people, and the mistletoe pinned up in the hallway is not helping. Arthur is being a little more protective than usual... Eventual England/Canada, fail summary.
1. Chapter 1

**My first attempt at a multi-chaptered Hetalia story! This one's a little strange… I just have this idea of everyone trying to kiss young Canada, and him being completely freaked out. It's not in any way historically accurate, and I apologise for any spelling/grammar mistakes. There's some yaoi and boy/boy, so if you don't like that, don't read. Reviews are always appreciated! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers Hetalia. Or mistletoe.**

Matthew was tying his shoelaces when the doorbell rang. He paused, the knot half-fastened, and listened for the unmistakable sound of Arthur trudging down the stairs. It never came.

Instead, Matthew tied a hasty bow and pushed himself off the floor. He ran a hand through his wavy hair as he trotted down the stairs, feeling slightly guilty. Arthur had always told him not to greet anyone unless he was completely presentable, and the unbrushed strands made him look as though he'd just got out of bed. Which wasn't that far from the truth, actually.

A more rebellious part of Matthew's mind told him, however, that if Arthur didn't want him to answer the door he should have done it himself.

Matthew hesitated before the door and reached up on his tiptoes to put his eye to the peephole. The image of a somewhat distorted, but very familiar, Francis swam into view.

Matthew twisted the doorknob, a faint smile lighting his delicate features. It had been over a week since he'd seen his Papa, and truth be told he'd missed him. Of course, he couldn't mention anything to Arthur, as the older man would fly into a rage at the very mention of Francis' name.

Matthew, temporarily forgetting the two men's obvious dislike for each other (it had been a long time since he'd seen his Papa, after all) pulled the door open.

Francis was smiling calmly, but this widened into a grin when he saw his son standing nervously in the doorway. "Matheiu!" he cried, taking in the boy's height (he seemed to be taller every time Francis saw him) and his slight build. His son's eyes were bright behind the wire-rimmed glasses, but his hair was obviously not combed.

Francis clicked his tongue in disapproval and Matthew, as if reading his Papa's mind, sheepishly ran his fingers through the wavy strands. "That is not how you do it," Francis mildly scolded. He stepped closer to his son and reached out a pale hand, so similar to the boy's own.

Matthew tensed, as his Papa moved towards him (must be Arthur's influence) and his eyes closed briefly. But after a few seconds, when the only new sensation was a strange feeling around his head, he risked opening them again.

Francis was combing his fingers through the boy's silky hair, an indulgent smile on his face as he groomed his son. Matthew smiled nervously back. Several minutes later, Francis pulled away almost reluctantly. "There," he said, "Much better."

Matthew opened the door wider to let his Papa into the house. His head still seemed to be tingling from the strange sensations the fingers running through his hair had caused. Something was tugging on his memory: he had a curious feeling that it had happened before. Probably when he was living with his Papa, he guessed.

He turned back to ask the older man about it, but Francis' eyes were focused on something above his head. Matthew looked up, and saw it: the glossy green and waxy white of the sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. He had helped Arthur decorate the house for Christmas a few days ago, and despite grumbling, the British man had insisted on putting the cluster of leaves there. He said it was traditional.

"Le gui," Francis murmured. Matthew frantically searched through his knowledge of French, trying to place the rarely heard words. Living with Arthur for so long had made him neglect his first language. "Mistletoe?" he guessed. Francis smiled gently and nodded at his son.

"Yes," he whispered, "Mistletoe." In Francis' soft, sensuous voice, the word sent strange sensations down Matthew's spine. He was still trying to work out what they were when the older man reached down and kissed him on the lips.

Matthew's mind exploded. Francis's mouth was hard and demanding against his own, tasting of wine and dark chocolate and- with one huge shove; he pushed his Papa away from him.

There was a long, hollow silence. Francis leant, panting slightly, against the wall, his eyes half-closed and his lips red from the kiss. Matthew hid his face in his hands. Francis was his Papa! The one who had raised him, taught him to speak, held him when he had nightmares… for them to kiss was completely, utterly, wrong. The boy felt dirty, embarrassed and ashamed. He couldn't bear to even look at Francis.

"What's going on?" a distinctive voice suddenly demanded. Arthur, Matthew thought, and before he knew what he was doing he found himself hugging the British man, clutching his jumper with desperate fingers and burying his face in the soft wool. "Nothing," he heard Francis mutter.

Matthew risked a glance at Arthur's face. The older man's expression was torn between confusion and a steadily rising anger. Thankfully, the latter was directed at Francis, not at his son. "You should go now," Arthur ordered in a low, dangerous voice. Matthew saw Francis hesitate, his clear blue eyes lingering on his son's head. "Go," Arthur growled, and the French man stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

Matthew let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and relaxed against Arthur's body. The British man smelt of tea and books, a familiar, comforting scent that calmed the boy's frantic mind.

After a few moments Arthur patted Matthew awkwardly on the back. "I- Are you ok?" he asked, sounding a little lost.

The younger boy breathed in the warm smell and leant his head against the other's chest. "I'm fine."


	2. Chapter 2

**Here's another chapter. Please review!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers.**

It was December 24th, and Arthur was hosting his annual Christmas party. Matthew stood awkwardly next to the fire, clutching a glass of lemonade in one hand. All around him, people were chatting, laughing, exchanging festive greetings and admiring the huge tree.

Matthew had to admit that it was a good one this year. Nine foot high and covered in red, gold and silver decorations, it emitted a faint pine smell that never failed to make Matthew smile.

Arthur had disappeared into the front room with his brothers (who were very loud, very drunk and- to Matthew at least- very scary) and Alfred had run off to talk to some Japanese boy. Leaving Matthew standing by the fire, listening to a fairly tipsy couple sing Christmas carols (loudly and badly) and feeling suddenly lonely. Suddenly, a familiar blond head in the corner of the room caught the boy's attention. It was something about the way the man moved, like a tiger focusing on his prey.

Matthew felt bile rise in his throat as he realised that Francis was sitting mere metres away from him, engaged in a very heavy tongue-tennis session with a brown-haired man. The boy pushed him way through the crowd, feeling distinctly nauseous.

Eventually he reached the hallway, which was blissfully empty. Matthew leant his head against the wall and closed his eyes, taking in deep breaths. Was this how his relationship with Francis was going to be from now on? Feeling sick and guilty whenever he saw his Papa?

Matthew's thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a loud, "Hey, Mattie!" He reluctantly opened his eyes to see Alfred grinning back at him, reindeer ears sitting wonkily on his head in honour of the occasion. He had a paper cup in one hand that he kept swigging from.

"Hello," Matthew replied tiredly. He loved his brother, but Alfred was just so… noisy. When all Matthew really wanted was to curl up in his bed and never get out of it again. "Great party," he dimly heard Alfred say, and reluctantly opened his eyes again.

"Yes," he replied weakly. Alfred frowned and scratched his nose. "What's up, bro?" he asked, his face torn between genuine concern and amusement. Matthew shook his head queasily, "Nothing, Al. I'm fine." Alfred didn't look convinced. "Seriously," he said, his lips hovering between grinning and frowning, "What's wrong?" His baby blue eyes focused on the glass Matthew was still clutching in his hot palm, and realisation dawned on Alfred's face.

He laughed; a loud, invasive sound that made his brother wince. "Had a little too much?" he said knowingly.

Matthew shook his head, tried to tell Alfred that all he'd drunk was lemonade, but the other boy wasn't listening. "It's ok, bro," he said, throwing an arm around his brother's shoulders, "We've all been there."

His breath was hot in Matthew's ear as he leant towards him, a little too close, and whispered, "In fact, I'm not even 100% sober now." Matthew could hear the slight slur in Alfred's voice and smell the strong alcohol on his breath. No shit, he thought tiredly.

Part of his brain wondered if he should take care of his obviously inebriated brother. But what could he do? The only thing that seemed reasonable would be to put Alfred in his own bed to sleep it off.

However, Matthew was under no illusions about the other boy's stubbornness. If he tried to get him to lie down, Alfred would just laugh and creep down to the party as soon as Matthew's back was turned.

Alfred was now leaning against him, a position that was very uncomfortable for the smaller boy. "Al," he muttered, trying to push his brother away, but Alfred was distracted by something hanging from the ceiling. Matthew followed his line of vision and felt his heart sink. Not this again, he thought wearily, eyes narrowing at the deceptively harmless-looking mistletoe.

"Look, Mattie," Alfred slurred, taking yet another swig from his cup, "Mistle- mist- misle" He frowned, and Matthew resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Mistletoe," Alfred finally managed, and beamed proudly.

A second later a pair of sloppy lips was pressed against Matthew's own. The younger boy felt vomit rise in his throat and tried to push Alfred away. But his brother was bigger and stronger than he was, and the alcohol wasn't helping. Alfred tasted of beer and something sickly sweet, like syrup. Matthew finally managed to shove the other boy's face away from him, and Alfred whined drunkenly.

As Matthew twisted himself out of his brother's limpet-like grasp, a strange feeling came over him. Something suddenly dawned on him: they weren't alone. Matthew turned his head to see Arthur standing a few feet away, his expression murderous.

Matthew swallowed nervously and began to back away. Alfred had always been the British man's favourite, his golden boy, and now he'd caught Matthew with him… the Canadian boy had never felt so afraid. Alfred, oblivious to the extremely tense situation, threw his arm around his brother's shoulders once again, and moved his face towards him.

Matthew shrank backwards, wishing he could disappear into the wall. Suddenly a voice rang out in the silence, "Get. Away. From. Him!" I'm trying, Matthew thought desperately, attempting to wriggle away from his brother once more. The Canadian didn't realise until something wrenched Alfred's body away from his that the words weren't directed towards him.

When Matthew could breathe normally once more, he reluctantly opened his eyes. His glasses had fallen off when Alfred lunged towards him, so everything was hazy, but he could make out several vague figures. Arthur- Arthur seemed to be glaring furiously at Alfred, who was cowering under his gaze. Matthew frowned and blinked. He must be seeing things. Why would Arthur be angry with Alfred?

"If I ever," the British man's voice was cold and full of loathing, "See you so much as _touch_ Matthew again, I'll kill you. Understood?" Something bobbed, and Matthew guessed that Alfred was nodding nervously. Without his glasses it was very difficult to tell. "Jealous, Arthur?" a mocking voice called, and with a sense of dread Matthew recognised it as Francis's. But what he'd said… it didn't make sense. Why would Arthur be jealous?

"Shut the fuck up, frog," Arthur growled. There was a long, tense silence. Then that same voice shouted, "Listen to me, everyone. This party is over. Go home." Matthew shrank back against the wall once more, terrified of being trampled on, as a steady stream of fuzzy figures began to traipse past him out of the door.

None of them seemed very happy, which was understandable, but at the moment Matthew didn't care. Eventually the flow of bodies trickled away. Matthew closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on breathing. He was scared, confused, and exhausted. The sound of footsteps made his heart thump and something was pushed into his hand.

Matthew didn't dare to look down until the footsteps had retreated upstairs. The object in his palm was cold and oddly familiar. He peered at it in the near-darkness. It was his glasses.


	3. Chapter 3

**A massive thankyou to everyone who's given me feedback on this story, especially Product Of A Sick Society, who was my first reviewer. A few people have asked whether they're humans or nations in this: when I starting writing it, I imagined them as nations, but I know that it's completely historically innacurate so really you can interpret it either way. I'm not as happy with this chapter, but I hope you enjoy it.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers, sellotape or the works of William Shakespeare. **

It was 4:27 am. Matthew closed his eyes and yet again tried desperately to clear his restless mind of all thoughts. Perhaps then he'd be able to go to sleep. Within seconds an incredibly annoying itch had sprung up on his ankle. Matthew sighed, feeling somewhat defeated, and tried to ignore it. He was probably just imagining it anyway. But hours awake had weakened his resolve, and soon he broke down, scratching the irritated skin with ragged, bitten fingernails.

Then he took a deep breath of the cool night air, untwisted his tangled bedsheets, and tried to feel calm. It wasn't working. Matthew opened his eyes once more and squinted at the glow-in-the-dark digits on the clock sitting beside his bed. 4:28 am. How could only one minute have passed?

He'd always imagined insomnia to be a romantic, poetic sort of condition. When the nights had been short and blissfully peaceful it was easy to envisage himself sitting alone in the moonlight, playing the piano or reciting Shakespearean sonnets. Matthew rolled over again.

He'd never even touched a keyboard, and the only one of William Shakespeare's works he owned was 'A Midsummer Night's Dream', which had been proudly presented to him by Arthur on his first day in the British man's house. In reality insomnia was a cold, blurry affliction: not exactly painful, but intensely uncomfortable.

Matthew stared at the grey ceiling and let his thoughts wander back to that day. His new guardian had pressed the thick volume into his hands, smiling vaguely with a distant, faraway expression on his face. That was the first time Matthew considered the possibility that perhaps Arthur wasn't completely evil after all.

He'd flicked through the book a few times, mostly out of curiosity as to what could make the usually stern older man so excited. Matthew wasn't surprised that he found the text almost impossible to understand. He was surprised, however, that what he could take in seemed to be about fairies.

The boy smiled slightly to himself. He had learnt so much more about Arthur since then, but the man's interest in magic never failed to surprise and delight him. It seemed so out of character, that childlike infatuation with the supernatural, but at the same time Matthew couldn't imagine him without it. "A man of mystery," the Canadian mumbled to himself. The words were loud in the silent, moonlit room.

If he was perfectly honest, Arthur was almost definitely the cause of this insomnia. His reaction to Alfred kissing Matthew was completely unexpected. Why had he reacted so violently towards the American? Sometimes Matthew thought that he knew his guardian better than anyone else, but then something like this happened and he realised that he barely understood Arthur at all.

His own views towards the British man were… confusing. When he'd first moved here, against his will, he had hated the arrogant, stuck-up stranger with all his heart. But over time Matthew found that increasingly difficult. It was hard to hate someone when you'd seen them crumble a loaf into breadcrumbs to feed the birds. After a few years the Canadian grudgingly admitted that even though Arthur could be controlling and strict, he wasn't a bad person.

In fact they had formed something similar to a friendship. Similar, but not exactly the same. If Matthew had asked himself a year ago what his relationship with Arthur was like, he knew he would have replied that the older man was his mentor. Someone he respected, admired even, but not someone he'd want to share his darkest secrets with.

Now, though… it was difficult to define the whirling mess of feelings tumbling around inside his head. Matthew had found himself watching the way the British man's pale, oddly elegant hands cradled a book like a child. When Arthur walked the Canadian studied the shape of his body. And if they happened to accidentally brush against each other a fiery heat washed over Matthew.

A sudden, sharp noise tore the boy from his tangled thoughts. He blinked, confused, and listened. There was the noise again, a loud "ping" that seemed to be coming from his window. Matthew, glad of an excuse to ignore his emotions, pushed himself out of bed and took a step across the room.

Then he paused, suddenly hesitant. What if it was Francis, drunk from a night of boozing? Or Alfred, bored and self-centred as usual? The Canadian swallowed nervously and risked a glance out of the window.

A pale, white haired man with a yellow rucksack on his back was bending over in the garden, apparently selecting another stone to throw at Matthew's window. The boy sighed and rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. What was Gilbert doing here so early in the morning? The Canadian had formed a strange sort of friendship with the albino, which he put down to two things.

One, he was pretty much the only one who could stand the Prussian man's never ending stream of "awesomeness" without punching him. Two, they were both used to being overlooked. They had bonded over pancakes (Matthew's speciality) and cheap German beer (Gilbert's, which made the younger man choke and splutter whenever he took a sip). Still, that didn't mean the albino could visit him in the middle of the night.

Matthew yanked the window open at exactly the same moment that Gilbert chucked his next pebble at it. It bounced off the Canadian's forehead, making him wince in pain and glare at his friend. "What are you doing here?" he hissed. Gilbert grinned happily up at him, oblivious to his annoyance. "It's Christmas, Mattie!" he yelled, loud enough to wake up the entire house. Matthew blinked. In all the confusion, he'd completely forgotten that today was the 25th of December. "I guess it is," he muttered to himself, prompting Gilbert to hold up his rucksack triumphantly and shout, "I brought your present!"

Matthew hurried down the stairs in the darkness, tugging on his dressing gown and praying that he wouldn't fall over. When he pulled the front door open he was met by Gilbert's cheerful smirking face. "Merry Christmas!" the Prussian shrieked, and Matthew winced. Arthur never liked being woken up, and being disturbed at half past 4 in the morning would probably result in a fit of angry expletives.

Gilbert was rooting around in his rucksack, and as Matthew stepped closer for a better look he found a hastily wrapped gift being shoved at his chest. The Canadian peered down at the oddly shaped present, covered in a combination of festive wrapping paper and what seemed to be a German newspaper. "I, uh, ran out of paper," Gilbert admitted somewhat sheepishly, shrugging the rucksack back on. "Thanks, Gil," Matthew said, and attempted to open the gift. As Gilbert had used at least three rolls of sellotape, it was an impossible feat. "I'll unwrap it later," the Canadian said.

Luckily, the Prussian's famously short attention span meant that he'd already become distracted. Unluckily, his red eyes were fixed on the sprig of berries pinned to the ceiling.

"Look, Mattie!" he said, as Matthew attempted to retreat towards the stairs, "Mistel! Trying to hook up with someone?" Gilbert winked dramatically at the Canadian and stepped forward to press a kiss to his lips. Well, this isn't actually too bad, Matthew found himself thinking. Gilbert's mouth was cold and soft, and seemed to be gone almost as soon as it arrived.

The Canadian opened his eyes to find the Prussian man walking away from him, down the garden path. "Bye, Mattie!" he called over his shoulder. Matthew closed the door gently and turned around to lean against it. Then he hesitantly reached up to touch his bottom lip with one fingertip. It was still chilly from Gilbert's impromptu kiss.

Matthew shook his head and moved towards the stairs. At that moment, however, he noticed the British man standing just a few steps above him, dressed in striped pyjamas and looking absolutely furious. Arthur was glaring at him, but there was something in his forest-green eyes besides the burning anger. He looked… hurt. Betrayed, almost. Before Matthew could think to wonder what that meant, Arthur's eyes had moved away from his face, and onto the deceptively innocent looking mistletoe.

"Right," the British man muttered to himself. Still glowering at the cluster of berries, he began to descend the stairs.

**In case it wasn't clear, Arthur was woken up by Gilbert's awesome yelling. He came downstairs to see what was going on and was standing on the stairs when Matthew was kissed. Thankyou for reading, and please review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**It's been a long time but, finally, here is the last chapter of Mistletoe Kisses. I felt slightly ridiculous writing a Christmas story in April, but after I came across it by accident yesterday I knew I couldn't leave it unfinished. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and (as always) I apologise for any spelling/grammar mistakes. Please review and let me know what you think about the ending! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers. **

Arthur brushed past Mathew and stormed over to the offending mistletoe. He stretched up to yank it away from the ceiling, leaving a ragged, torn leaf still clinging to the place where it was pinned up. The Canadian stared, completely taken aback, as Arthur threw the mistletoe to the ground and crushed it under his bare foot.

Then the British man ground it under his heel, and finished by jumping up and down a few times on top of it. When his task was complete, he looked up at Matthew, a little red-faced.

Then he said somewhat defensively, "It's a parasitic plant anyway."

Matthew quickly nodded in agreement, too shocked to say anything. Arthur shot one last fierce glare at the pathetic, crushed bundle of leaves on the carpet before muttering, "Bloody Germans…" and trudging back up the stairs.

The Canadian boy bent down and gently peeled the remains of the mistletoe off the floor. "You have no idea how much trouble you've caused," he murmured.

How could one little plant have set off such a weird, traumatising, confusing series of events? Matthew sighed, shaking his head. It was far too early to think clearly about what had happened. Instead he cleaned up the mess Arthur had made and wandered back to his bed.

Three sleepless hours later, Matthew was making tea in the kitchen when Arthur burst into the room. The Canadian blinked at his guardian. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair was even messier than usual, and he was clutching a wrapped present so tightly his fingernails had ripped through the paper.

"Tea?" Matthew offered weakly. Arthur stared at him as if the answer was obvious (which, now that Matthew thought about it, it was) and shot a glare that could have destroyed a small country at the radio, which was blaring out happy Christmas music.

"Here," the British man said shortly, shoving the prettily wrapped parcel at the Canadian boy.

"Thankyou," Matthew replied, abandoning the tea making to unwrap the present. He carefully peeled off the sellotape, unfolded the paper, and pulled out… the most hideous sweater he had ever seen.

It was maroon. With a reindeer on it. And _bobbles_. Plus, Matthew had a nasty feeling it was hand-knitted. "I- I don't know what to say," he whispered truthfully.

Arthur's eyebrows pulled together in a frown. "Aren't you going to put it on?" he demanded. Feeling slightly queasy, Matthew gingerly tugged the sweater down over his neck. It was big and ugly and bulged in all the wrong places.

Arthur didn't smile, but he made a satisfied sort of "harrumph" noise. Then he picked up one of the steaming cups of tea and told Matthew shortly, "I'll be in my study. Don't interrupt me."

"Wait, I haven't given you your present yet!" Matthew tried to say, but his guardian had already vanished in a whirl of eyebrows and tweed. The Canadian boy sighed unhappily, plucked at the maroon wool with his fingertips, and murmured, "Happy Christmas, Matthew."

Matthew was sitting in the lounge, nursing a mug of hot chocolate and generally feeling sorry for himself, when the doorbell rang. His shoulders tensed immediately, but then he remembered Arthur's attack on the mistletoe, and decided to risk it.

The Canadian yanked open the door to reveal what appeared to be an explosion in a glitter factory. After a few seconds observation, however, it turned out to be Feliciano in his Christmas outfit.

"Hello!" the ever-enthusiastic Italian boy screamed, "Merry Christmas, ve!" Behind him, Ludwig winced slightly. The blonde-haired German was dressed in a sweater that was only marginally less ugly than Matthew's own, and his face was sourer than a lemon.

"Er, come in," Matthew said uncertainly. Feliciano brushed past him and pranced into the lounge, with Ludwig trailing behind him.

"We're spreading holiday cheer," the Italian told Matthew in what (for him) passed as a serious voice, "We're giving everyone in the neighbourhood Christmas cookies!"

With a flourish, he produced a ribbon-covered parcel from somewhere and shoved it into the Canadian boy's hands. He unwrapped it a little reluctantly (remembering what had happened the last time he'd opened a present) and held up one of the slightly misshapen cookies. There was something strange about them, but he couldn't quite work out what…

Then it dawned on him in a horrifying flash of clarity. "Feliciano… do these cookies have _pasta_ in them?"

"Ve~! Everything tastes better with pasta!" Matthew made a mental note to never, ever put one of those cookies anywhere near his mouth. Thankfully, he was spared the embarrassment of having to pretend to eat one by a strange squeaking noise.

Ludwig and Matthew both glanced at Feliciano, but for once he wasn't the source of the squeal. It happened again a few moments later.

Matthew looked up at the ceiling, wondering if Arthur was conducting some sort of experiment on rabbits, but Ludwig was staring sternly at the mantelpiece. Or, rather, the sellotape-encased package sitting on the mantelpiece.

"Gilbert's present," Matthew murmured, and the German man's blue eyes narrowed dangerously.

Ludwig leaned past Matthew to pick up the package, and at that moment Arthur stormed into the room.

He blinked, green eyes widening, at the sight of Ludwig (one arm above Matthew's shoulder as he reached past him, face closer to the Canadian boy's than normal) and let out a sort of frustrated screech.

"Bloody hell!" the British man fumed, "What else can I do? I shouted at Alfred, I took down the mistletoe, I forced you to wear a horrible jumper, and _still_ people want to kiss you? Why are you so bloody irresistible?"

With surprising force, Arthur rushed past Feliciano, shoved Ludwig out of the way, and pressed his mouth against Matthew's lips.

So this is what a kiss is supposed to feel like, a small part of the Canadian boy's mind whispered, before Arthur's tongue lapped at his lips and he lost all sense of reality. The British man tasted of rain and forests and perfect, painful desire. It was hot and sweet and comforting and _wonderful_.

It might have been a second, or a minute, or a day, or a month, before Arthur released him. Matthew had lost all sense of time, all sense of _everything_ apart from the feel of the older man's lips against his own.

There was a long, heavy silence. Feliciano looked slightly confused, but was beaming happily, Ludwig's brow was furrowed and the tips of his ears had turned bright pink, and Arthur… Arthur looked like someone who had just been told a horrible secret.

"You- He was trying to get to the package, wasn't he…" he said in a curiously strangled voice. Matthew nodded. His lips were still tingling, and he was sure he had a tomato-red blush on his cheeks that could rival Arthur's own.

"We should go," Ludwig barked out, and (grabbing Feliciano's hand to tug him along) hurried out of the house.

If the silence before had been awkward, this one was doubly so. A flood- no, a tidal wave- of emotions was rushing through Matthew's brain.

_I'm in love with Arthur_, his mind was screaming. _Oh God… I'm in love with Arthur_.

The British man himself had turned away, face burning, obviously deeply embarrassed.

_What if it was a mistake?_ Matthew thought, panicking, _What if he- what if he fell forward and landed on my mouth_?

Then, in an uncharacteristic moment of recklessness, he muttered to himself, "There's only one way to find out."

He took a deep breath, thought once more about how flawless that kiss had been, and said quietly, "You don't need mistletoe to kiss me, Arthur."

The older man turned around so fast it must have been painful, emerald eyes shining with something that looked suspiciously like hope. _Here goes nothing_, Matthew thought, and leaned forward to press their mouths together once again.

* * *

A few hours passed before Matthew made pancakes and Arthur (despite complaining that they "weren't British") ate twelve of them. Before, blushing slightly, he finally presented him with his Christmas present (a limited edition leather bound copy of A Midsummer Night's Dream; "To replace the one you gave me."). Before they sat together on the sofa (far closer than they would have yesterday) to watch _It's a Wonderful Life_ and _Miracle on 34__th__ Street_.

But for the whole day, one thought kept reappearing in Matthew's mind:

_Mistletoe is highly overrated._


End file.
